The Token
by fandomfatale
Summary: By chance Haymitch meets little Effie Trinket while he's in the Capitol for the second Quarter Quell. This story is so fluffy that you could stuff a pillow with it. Haymitch/Effie But not really because she's 5.


TITLE: The Token

DISCLAIMER: Yes I own the Hunger Games. (I don't, though.)

SUMMARY: By chance Haymitch meets little Effie Trinket when he's in the Capitol for the second Quarter Quell.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is so fluffy (literally) that you could stuff a pillow with it. Apologies. I've been wanting to write it or a variation on it since forever, and I can't believe it devolved into cotton candy. But what can you do?

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He didn't know what it felt like to make another person bleed. To feel the blade going through their flesh. To see the red pouring out and know that he had done it and meant to.

And in the arena, well, he'd be a fool to think he could win without hurting. Without killing. He didn't want his inexperience to give him pause.

So Haymitch picked up one of the heavy broadswords, pretended he found it unwieldy, and swung it widely, slicing open the arm of a nearby Career. It was about as much of an accident as when the tribute from District 2 then retaliated with his machete, slashing up Haymitch's back in a long but carefully superficial cut. However the two of them protested innocence when the trainer overseeing them crossed her arms and glared.

"To the infirmary," she sighed angrily, reluctantly accepting their lies and indicating the exit with a throw of her head. She was obviously suspicious, but probably didn't want to bother with the paperwork required when tributes fought before the Games began. It was what Haymitch had been counting on.

The Career grinned back at Haymitch as he sped ahead towards the elevators, arrogance and vengeance gleaming in his eyes. He had come out on top: the injury across Haymitch's shoulder blade was far more severe than what Haymitch had inflicted on him with the sword. But it was just as well, Haymitch thought. He needed to learn how to deal with pain as much as he needed to get used to dealing it out.

He didn't feel any remorse about attacking another tribute before the Games had begun. Not _that_ tribute, anyway: he was an asshole. He had laughed when Maysilee failed miserably with the bow and arrow. His parade costume had consisted of him nearly-naked and covered in fake blood, which promised brutality and gave everyone the perfect opportunity to see that he had at least four inches and 40 pounds of pure muscle on most of the other tributes.

And he was a Career.

Taking the next elevator down several floors to the infirmary, Haymitch let himself wince at the pain while no one was looking. He could feel the blood soaking into his shirt, warm and sticky. He could deal with this, he told himself. If he took a cut like this in the arena, he could handle it. The pain was tolerable – he just needed to win before infection set in.

The elevator doors opened to reveal an austere sick bay lined with chairs, beds, and exam cots. Haymitch spotted Distrcit 2 in the opposite corner, a nurse dabbing at the cut on his arm with a white cloth.

"I had a feeling there might be another one coming," a middle-aged man in a white lab coat remarked dryly as he emerged from a small office. He smiled at Haymitch, and then gestured for him to sit on the first exam table. "What's your name, son?" the doctor asked, friendly, as he put on fresh latex gloves.

"Haymitch Abernathy," he responded impatiently. He was itching to be back in the training room: there was so much to learn, and only three days. No time for small talk. "District 12," he added, anticipating the man's next question.

The man nodded and Haymitch didn't miss the hint of sympathy in his eyes. In 49 years of Hunger Games only one victor had hailed from District 12.

"I'm Dr. Trinket. Best of luck to you," he said, and Haymitch almost laughed because what a joke that was. This man didn't think he would win. And he had been reaped: clearly he didn't have any luck. "Now, tell me what happened."

Haymitch began removing his shirt. "It was a knife. An accident."

"Of course," the doctor replied skeptically. He moved behind Haymitch and began to clean the wound. Haymitch bit his lip and closed his eyes, trying not to gasp at the stinging. "I want you healed completely before you go into the arena, so I'm going to go ahead and do stitches," Dr. Trinket muttered when he had finished, leaning over Haymitch with a magnifying glass. "I'll need to numb the area. I'm afraid your right arm won't be much good to you for the rest of the day."

Haymitch cursed under his breath; he had planned to spend the first day trying out the different weapons, figuring out which ones worked for him and then developing his proficiency. He would just have to focus on plant identification, snares, and studying his opponents when he returned to training. A part of him was relieved: at least he would be fully recovered before the Games began. He would never win with his back split in two.

He could hear the doctor preparing a hypodermic needle and he braced himself.

"Wait, Daddy! Let him hold Fluffy."

Haymitch rolled his head to the side and saw a little puff of a girl lounging in the chair across the aisle from him. He decided that she must have wandered in while his eyes were closed and he was distracted by the pain. It was a good lesson for the arena: he was ashamed that what he estimated to be a five year-old dressed about as subtly as a clown had managed to creep up on him.

Like her father, she was not made-up in the fashion of the Capitol: her soft blonde hair bobbed naturally under her chin, the curls bouncing when she jumped to her feet and crossed over to him. But her full-length, poofy, and ruffled bubblegum dress was the very image of gaudy Capitol wealth and glitz. She clutched a stuffed toy rabbit in her arms, which she handed to Haymitch insistently. "Fluffy will protect you." The words were garbled as she had a sucker in her mouth. She pulled it out by the stick and then said, "He'll make sure it doesn't hurt too much."

Haymitch had accepted it from her before he even understood what was going on. He looked down at the plaything, its eyes gold and its fur sky blue. He wondered if people in the Capitol actually thought that's what rabbits looked like. It was unlikely most of them had ever seen a real one. Or a real anything.

"This is my daughter," Dr. Trinket informed him apologetically. "Effie, dear, I told you to stay in my office. I have a patient."

"Your office is boring," the girl retorted, spinning around in several rapid circles and then wandering back to the chair in a dizzy haze.

"My wife is ill," he explained to Haymitch. "Normally it's very slow down here."

"It's better if you hug him," Effie told Haymitch, nodding encouragingly.

Haymitch didn't hug Fluffy, but he nearly squeezed the stuffing out of it as he felt the injection entering his bloodstream. And it did help, actually.

Effie discarded her unfinished lollipop into a nearby trashcan without a care and it made Haymitch furious because half of the Seam kids wouldn't even get a treat like that on their birthdays. She noticed him glaring at her, and she frowned in perturbed confusion.

"This is probably less than sterile," Dr. Trinket joked in his dry-humored way, taking the toy with unexpected difficulty out of Haymitch's hands and holding it out for his daughter to reclaim. She took Fluffy back and tucked it under one of her arms.

The nurse with the Career called out for the doctor, and he went over to them, leaving Haymitch alone with the little girl while the anesthetic took effect.

Haymitch ignored her, but she stood close to him, unyielding, refusing to be ignored.

"I think you'll win," she announced when she had finally forced him through sheer will to look at her, her fathomless blue eyes shining.

"Why's that?" he asked, trying to sound apathetic and failing. She was bright and cute, but hardly a gamemaker; yet he was still curious.

"Because you're strong," Effie answered. She poked him in the chest. "I can see your muscles. You must be very strong.'

"So is he," Haymitch argued, pointing at the Career and his rippling biceps.

Effie glanced at the other tribute with disdain. "You hurt him," she argued back.

"He hurt me worse." Haymitch shifted to show her the laceration across his shoulders.

"But not next time," the little girl asserted with total confidence.

He gave her a half grin, involuntarily.

"Maybe you could dig yourself a hole," she then suggested. "You're good at that, right? You could hide."

Haymitch was confused until he realized she was referring to the ineffectual coalminer outfits he and his fellow District 12 tributes had worn in the parade the night before – she must have recognized him. He laughed in spite of himself. "You remember that?"

She nodded energetically.

"I'm not a miner. Not yet, anyway." It dawned on him then that he never would be. He'd either be a rich, idle victor…or he'd be dead. "That outfit was because of my district," Haymitch continued, not missing a beat. "Did they teach you about the districts yet? I'm from 12."

"It's far," she replied, proud she knew something about it.

"Father than you know," he remarked, looking at her plumpness and her soft, uncalloused hands and her expensive dress.

"Maybe I'll go to District 12 someday," she pondered. "I want to."

He found himself laughing again. "Yeah. Maybe you'll like it so much you'll move there," he joked bitterly. They must not be teaching these kids much truth if she wanted to visit District 12.

"I want to see where the pearls come from," she continued, waxing wistful about District 12. "And I want to go more far than Clodia. Her mom took her to District 4 and she got to see the ocean and it's all she talks about," Effie stomped, "but I'm going to go more far than her. I'm going to go all the way to the edge. District 12 is at the edge, isn't it? I saw it on a map, there was a big 12 and red lines."

"Not quite," Haymitch corrected.

"I wonder what's at the edge," Effie speculated. "Do you know?"

"Just water," he told her. But there was more than that. The woods, and District 13. And it made him wonder too, about those places.

And about the arena.

Her father returned then, and he sent Effie away with the nurse to procure Haymitch a new shirt.

The patched up Career strolled by soon after as he exited, that same smirk on his face. "See you back out there," he said, and it almost sounded amicable.

"And I'll see you in the _arena_," Haymitch one-upped, not even turning back to look at the Career's face. But even though he had said it, even though he hated that boy, he couldn't make himself feel the desire to kill him. He _would_ kill him, though.

Haymitch regretted being so hasty with Dr. Trinket earlier as the doctor finished with his flawless suturing faster than Haymitch had ever imagined possible. He gave him several more injections – antibiotics, regenerative enzymes and steroids.

"I want you to come back tomorrow so I can check on the progress," he told Haymitch, taking off his gloves. "And then probably once more the night before you leave. Send your escort to speak with me and I'll arrange it with her."

Haymitch nodded and stood. The pain was gone, and he could move his right arm, but his aim was worthless. But then he shrugged it off – he wasn't going to become a master marksman in three days anyway.

The nurse and the little girl returned, bearing a new shirt. Haymitch struggled a little to put it on, and Effie laughed at him.

"You still think I am going to win?" Haymitch asked her self-deprecatingly.

"Yes."

He was going to smile at her because it felt good to have someone rooting for him here, but he was interrupted by the doctor handing him a bottle of pills. "For the pain," he said, but Haymitch knew he wouldn't be taking them. He couldn't prepare himself if he was drugged up the whole time.

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He hadn't thought about the little girl at all until he arrived back in the infirmary, but he noticed right away that she wasn't there. It seemed sort of lifeless without her. Dr. Trinket was pleased with the healing progression after poking and prodding a little at the wound.

"You seem to be in pain," the doctor commented. He waited sagely for Haymitch to explain.

Haymitch thought he had been hiding the pain well, but the doctor had seen right through him. He didn't answer.

"I understand," Dr. Trinket finally said. "You're tough. It's admirable. And you're smart too. Maybe you will win, like my Effie says. She wouldn't stop talking about you last night at dinner. She'll be very upset if you lose."

"So will my mother," Haymitch rejoined emotionlessly, the rage that never quite went away boiling just under the surface.

Dr. Trinket sighed compassionately. "You can go, Haymitch."

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Haymitch returned to see Dr. Trinket one last time after his interview with Caesar Flickerman. It had gone well – he had made them laugh, he had made them cheer. His score of nine from the gamemakers was impressive. And he could no longer feel the cut on his back. Even though he had seen victors on the brink of death appear as good as new in their post-Games interviews a couple of days later, he still marveled at the medicine of the Capitol. And how little they had of it in District 12.

"Did you see me?" he was asked right as he stepped off the elevator. He looked around, but the infirmary was mostly dark. Then he saw a figure moving back in the shadows. He knew it was the little girl, he could tell from her voice. But he saw now that she was nestled into one of the beds, Fluffy in her arms. "I was there. I wore my new green dress," she finished sleepily.

"Sorry," he negated.

"That's OK." She shrugged, but she sounded disappointed

"What did you think of my interview?"

"You were funny," Effie told him. "But you said everyone else was stupid. That was bad manners."

Haymitch blinked. But then a smile snuck onto his face. "I had to get sponsors," he explained. "They'll only sponsor me if they think I'll win. And if I'm smarter than everyone else, I will."

She nodded, her head still on the pillow. "You will," she echoed.

"Maybe you could sponsor me," he teased, "since you're so sure."

She giggled. "I'm just a kid!"

"But I might need help," he pressed playfully.

"If I knew how to help you I would," she assured him with heart.

Haymitch hadn't been expecting her to say that, and it took him aback.

"Effie," Dr. Trinket chastised sternly, coming out of his office. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"I am asleep," Effie responded.

The doctor laughed at his daughter. As Haymitch had suspected, the sternness had been a pretense.

Haymitch removed his shirt and sat down on the exam table. Dr. Trinket remarked that the injury was in excellent shape, and while he removed the stitching thread, little Effie rose from her bed and approached them. Once again she handed her furry companion to Haymitch.

"It's OK; it doesn't hurt," he told her.

She shook her head. "No. You should take him to the Games with you. You get to take something, right? You could use a good friend like Fluffy."

Haymitch was more moved by the gesture than he cared to show. "It's too big for a token. And it's too late, anyway," he said, a little gruffly, forcing the stuffed rabbit back into her hands.

She was miffed by his coldness but she did not reproach him.

"Sweetheart, Haymitch has a big, big day tomorrow. Why don't you give him some peace," her father suggested.

She nodded reluctantly and moved back towards her temporary bed.

The doctor applied an ointment and then gave Haymitch a gentle slap on the shoulder. "Good as new." He paused. "A word of advice, son?" he then posed.

Haymitch gave him permission to impart his wisdom, though he was derisive of the idea that this man had anything to offer that would help him in the arena.

"You're tough and you're smart. And that's good. But being too tough, too smart – that can get you into trouble, too," Dr. Trinket said.

Haymitch nodded, though he would only understand later exactly what the doctor had meant.

He never could find the right balance.

Throwing his shirt back on, Haymitch tarried by the elevators. He felt an inexplicable inclination to reconcile with the little girl.

But he didn't. He returned to the penthouse and went to bed. But despite everything that was going to happen the next day, his last thought before going to sleep was that he wished he had been a little bit nicer. After all, she seemed to be the only person with complete confidence that he was going to win.

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When he woke up in an infirmary bed several days after his victory in the arena, he discovered Fluffy tucked in beside him.


End file.
